


Operation

by Tal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Brothers, Childhood, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, POV Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-02-01 02:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21325732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tal/pseuds/Tal
Summary: So why do the Holmes Brothers, with all their intellect, play that silly game? Or; two times Sherlock got Mycroft to play Operation and one time Mycroft got Sherlock to.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30
Collections: BBC "Sherlock" for Canon Addicts





	Operation

**1985**

My brother is an idiot. It’s not a cruelty to say that (though I know not to say it in front of mum and dad), it’s just a simple truth. And one he is unwilling to face, but well... he _is_ an idiot. 

I’m not entirely without fault myself, though. I’ve made the mistake of calling him sluggish. I meant, of course, that his mind is sluggish compared to mine, but he has made a point of proving to me that he is _lightning_-fast. 

He started by running circles around me – but fell over dizzy eventually. He then took a wooden sword and started a very annoying game of ‘not touching you, not touching you’ while showing me in how very many ways he could kill me with his razor sharp reactions. This went on for about ten minutes, until he smashed a vase. He got the blame for that, but if I'm entirely honest... I calculated where to stand in order for that exact mishap to happen. A collision was inevitable and the rest followed naturally, if terribly stupidly on my brother’s behalf. 

He has now, it seems, chosen a less harmful option. 

“What is this?” I ask. 

“What planet are you from? Operation.” 

A roll of the eyes on my behalf. “Don’t be smart, Sherlock. I know what it is. Why are you choosing to put it on the table in front of me?” 

“We’re playing Operation.”

“We aren’t.” 

The grin on his face reaches Cheshire proportions. “Oh,” comes a sing-song voice. “Don’t you want to play? Scared to? Think you’ll lose?” 

I sigh and sit up to play the game. Well. I’m twelve. Of course I won’t let my five-year-old brother think he can win. 

**1992**

We’ve been home-schooled for the most part, but, like any other child, we had to be released into the world eventually. Chucked into the bowl to swim with the gold-fish, so to speak. Fortunately, my parents have long since given up any attempts to get me to socialize. I do, of course, when it suits me, when it suits my purpose. And therein lies the difference between myself and my brother. I put effort in the façade. I’ve been called charming. By gold-fish. Which is good, because I mean to be in charge of the aquarium at some point. There is the challenge. To understand that a wrinkle in the water in the upper left corner might lead to famine and war on the other side. That is the only thing worthy of my intellect. 

My brother is younger and as such less eloquent about the situation. “Other people are boring.” 

“Yes. I’m still not playing that stupid game.” 

“_You_ are boring.” 

“Yes.” Again that smile, again that sing-song voice. “And scared...”

“And not a child any more. I don’t bite that easily.” 

“I think you bite _very_ easily. _Over_-easily.”

“Ah, a play on my weight. Very humorous.” 

He drops the smile then. “I will tell mother that you don’t want to play games with me. Do you think that might upset her?” 

I sigh and I sit down. My mother has a weakness for my brother's pout and I have no use upsetting her. 

If anyone ever finds out I played Operation at nineteen, I will take whatever measure needed to silence them. 

**2005**

I haven’t seen him awake yet. Our relationship is strained at best and I doubt my face would be a welcome one upon his first waking. Instead, I come to visit him when he is in that ridiculous flat he calls his home. I don’t come empty handed. 

He looks terrible; undernourished, grim and tired. I refrain from commenting on it - it wouldn't go down well. 

“What’s this?” He asks. We were never the sort for conventional greetings. 

I place the box on the living room table, where he can see it from his current horizontal position on the sofa. “A game," I explain. "An old favourite of yours, I believe. I thought it might help pass time.” 

A shifty eye to the game and then to me. He hasn’t moved yet. “Operation?” 

“Yes.” 

“You hate that game.”

“Well, I’m indulging you. It _is_ the only game you can beat me at.” 

“Unless my hands are shaking," he comments.

“There’s that.” 

“Which they might be, considering...” 

My shrug is imperceptible. 

“You want to play the game _now_ while I’m fresh out of... that place? Why?" He can't bring himself to call it by its name. I don't blame him. 'Rehab' has a dreadful ring to it. 

“A game to pass time, brother dear. As it always has been.” 

"Because you think you can finally win?" I can see in his face that he doesn’t believe me. It hardly matters. Even if he knows my intentions, the underlying trail of thought that lead me to come here, and even if he hates me for it, I know he can't resist playing the game. He knows he can win and that is irresistible to him. 

The sacrifice is small on my part. I will play, and I will loose. The tremor in his hands is psychosomatic. Chemical dependence doesn’t last this long. If this is what I must do to make sure my brother's tremor vanishes, I will. 


End file.
